


Little Secrets

by CharismaticEnticer



Category: Die Anstalt
Genre: Animism, Crack Pairing, Dubious Consent, Humanophilia, I'm so sorry, M/M, Mental Coercion, Mind Games, Non-Canon Relationship, POV First Person, Past Tense, Plushophilia, Pre-Canon, Present Tense, Revelations, Secrets, Took the Crack Pairing Seriously, Weird Dialogue Style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharismaticEnticer/pseuds/CharismaticEnticer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both humans and toys have minds. Both have souls. And both have their own not-so-little secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> I am fully aware that this is a completely random pairing. I first conceptualized it in jest as the answer to the question "worst pairing ever" (for a fandom ship meme) in March 2012. I would normally have left it alone after that, but my at-the-time-brand-new friend decided she liked the pairing and put it to me that it would only work with Dr Wood being the submissive party. And my brain kinda interpreted that as a challenge to write the pairing with Wood calling the shots instead, and...  
> Well, what's done is done. And for what it's worth, looking back on it, I do like how this came out, even if I accidentally made Dr Kindermann sound easily startled. I would later try to retcon this slip in characterization by writing a sequel. No, AO3 will not be seeing it. I would prefer to keep it an exclusive to another site.
> 
> Originally written and published on April 20th 2012.
> 
> Die Anstalt © Martin Kittsteiner.

The mind is an enigma. Plush toy, human, mammal, bird: all have brains and emotions and logic. Some are more accessible than others, but one can never fully grasp what goes on in a mind, frustrating in its complexity and its simplicity.

The above is true for most. But not for me. I don’t have to try to understand minds. Give me a minimum of an hour with a troubled stranger, and I will work them out. I think, I analyze. I know.

You would like to think you are immune, wouldn’t you, Kindermann? Sitting at your desk, silent, reading, trying to maintain your unfathomability. Unaware of just how fast the smokescreen will vanish when I next speak to you.

Unaware, perhaps, of your own secret.

************

Truth be told, you did take longer than usual to get to this point. You were my superior, once. You were head physician, while I was just a visiting colleague, a rising star. You had an office, while I had a guest bedroom. You had the final say, and I the notebook and pencil. We were wrapped up in the minds of others, too busy to work each other out and to **be** worked out, for better or worse.

Then the skies changed. I eclipsed you. At Schatthausen, I was spontaneously promoted to Head of Psychiatry, a superior position. I gained an office too, in that I share yours. I gained more responsibilities and, paradoxically, more time on my wings, time that I started utilizing as soon as I regained ownership of my suitcase back at my workstation. Having already gotten an understanding on what makes the patients tick, my attentions turned to you.

The frustrating week that stretched these attentions seemingly proved how much of a mystery you were. You still have an element of this now. You do not have secrets as strong as mine, but you are not an open book as others are. Some toys, and people, enjoy mystery.

But in an industry where there is no room for doubt, mystery annoys me.

You annoyed me, Kindermann. You spoke the right language. You exalted me and my works even before the momentous conference. (I’ve read your letters. “[That Dr. Wood will win the Nobel Prize is beyond doubt]”? “[Witty as well as elegant]”? So true, but nonetheless flattering.) You lauded me as a toy as well as a scientist. Despite this, you annoyed me because you were so damn impenetrable.

In hindsight, this adoration should have been my first clue to the chink in your armour.

The second came in the form of an article in Psychoanalysis Now. Another conference, this time in Berlin, focusing on animism. Mammal, bird, trees, ocean: all have a soul, so said the news piece. The cuddly toy was conspicuously absent, except as an afterthought in the third-to-last paragraph _._ I was reading it aloud - a habit of mine that is by now autonomous - while you were writing a report of some sort. 

_[ Dr Ovis also makes his conference debut after several submissions to this regular, one of which you will find on page 42. Maintaining his fascination with the seedier side of psychology, he will discuss the implication of animism on various paraphilias amongst humans, including the existence of dendrophilia and plushophilia, and the importance of…  
_ _Something wrong, Kindermann?]_

For the sound of your keystrokes had halted, possibly to accommodate the sounds of the final _philia_.

“[No,]” you said casually after a little bit. “[I’m just reading back over what I’ve written.]” Admittedly, this is your usual practice. But in the middle of an unfinished sentence, Kindermann? It might be hard to see under this hood sometimes, but I am far from oblivious.

The mention of an ‘innocent’ fetish made your mask slip. It was gradual, a minute movement at best, and only for a second. Nonetheless, it was a slip, and you knew for the rest of the day that I know, somehow becoming even more taciturn until the time came to check up on your patients.

My thoughts and the two clues congregated in the night. My mind ticked over, every part of me dedicated to putting the pieces together. I worked through possible scenarios, mapped images in my head as to what truth I could extract were I to corner you, and how. 

Then, in one final mental silhouette, it clicked. Two surges spread through my being, only one of a small victory, and I found the seeds of a little secret of my own.

************

This was two days ago. It is now today, and you are reading, silent, at your desk. I am sitting at mine, watching you, the key issue of PaN once again spread in front of me. I pay little attention to it; I have already read the most important article from first word to last.

I know how to pierce the shield you have around yourself. I am one step closer to comprehending Dr Kindermann. That is the important thing.

I cannot jump into this exposure right away, however. Instead, I make a pensive noise, a hum in my throat, just loud enough to invite conversation.

It works, you look up at me. “[Did you say something?]”

_[No, but I was going to.]_ Count to 3 in my head, 1 2 3. _[It might interest you to know that I have done more extensive research on plushophilia since Tuesday.]_

Once again the mask hiccups, but not so strongly now. You’ve practiced self-control. “[Any particular reason?]”

_[Did you really need to ask that? You know me and my lust for knowledge, Kindermann.]_

“[True, true.]”

You don’t ask me to continue, but you do not stop me either, so I do. [ _Lust…maybe not such an appropriate word. Only a fraction of appreciators of stuffed animals view them with any sexual tinge, and yet that has become the core meaning of the term. Collectors of teddy bears and connoisseurs are tarred with the same brush as those who give their toys Strategically Placed Appendages.]_ (A particularly risky part of my research… I had to clear my browsing history afterwards.)  
 _[Though for some enthusiasts, it is hard to tell on which side of the line they sit.]_

You are silent again, your book is forgotten. On an impulse, I beckon you over to my desk with my wing. Still quietly, you obey, leaving your chair behind. You can’t hide behind furniture anymore. I can see the beginnings of sweat on your brow.

An errant thought points out to me that this is true superiority.

_[The thought occurs that plushophilia both proves and muddles my Projectionist Theory. Remember the Projectionist Theory?]_

“[How could I forget? Your most controversial argument to date, I reckon.]”

_[Yes, I know. It would initially seem that those on both ends of the WnW scale can be a plushophile.] _The word is becoming too familiar in my mouth, but every usage pulls our facade away a little more. _[But if humans do not see their objects of affection as living sentient beings, then what would be the purpose? Collectors I can understand being level 1, but I can’t comprehend any satisfaction from kissing something inanimate. So theoretically, the fetish would be more common amongst threes to sixes on the scale… that is, people of your level of awareness.]_

“[Pardon the frankness, Doctor,]” you say, this time a bit **too** casually, ”[but…why are you bringing this up?]”

My reasons are many. To unhinge you. To make sure you know your place. But the reason I voice is: _[because it begs a certain question.]_

Is it your confidence in my ability or your current state in general that makes this admission catch you off guard, purely and brilliantly off guard?

_[I do not presume to know **everything** about a side of a  paraphilia that I cannot experience,] _I continue, climbing onto the top of my desk to face you more directly. _[I am not human myself, after all. Therefore, I presume that you, as the only flesh and blood being in the room, should know this much.]_

You dwarf me in height, standing this close to me. But I have rarely, if ever, felt so tall as now.

 

_[They call it plushophilia when the human is attracted to the cuddly toy._

_What do they call it when the cuddly toy is attracted to the human?]_

 

The penny drops. All pretence of calm is almost gone. You hang on to the threads you have left. “[I. I’m, I still don’t know why you keep asking about this topic…]”

You lie. Of course you know. It is clear in every sense, clear that you know and **I** know, and I will not let that slip past.

"[…but, if it’s all the same to you, I think the subject needs to be dropped, since I have a few more papers to get through today and—]”

Lies again. Your paperwork stack is empty. Pathetic.

"[—I’m sure you’re very busy yourself and besides I’m not sure what this has to do with anythi—]”

_[ **Kindermann.** ]_

Your excuse falters to a stop at my word, you look at me again. You seem so confused, unenlightened, vulnerable. I’ve never seen you like this before; so exhilarating.

I grab your tie and pull you down. We see eye to eye.

Now do you understand?

_[You might be inferior in the intelligence department. But you’re not **entirely** stupid. You can figure it out.]_

Then, in one physical perfect-match silhouette, we click.

 

> The brushing of my plush beak against your human lips barely lasts for more than a second, but so much more - emotions, comradity, confusion, morality, ethics, dynamics, understanding, secrecy - fluctuates and blurs in the single instant.

 

“[Stop.]” You worm your way out of my kiss easily, as my grip on your tie was slack. “[Don’t do that again.]”

_[I don’t need to. Just once for now will be quite enough.]_

“[For now? What? Why did you- Why?]”

_[I’ve just credited you with a modicum of common sense, Kindermann; please don’t prove me wrong.] _My voice is tinged with disapproval, but on the inside I can still feel the rush. Your mind, your soul, **you** are visible and unfogged and not so stoic for the first time since my arrival. Beautiful, in a scientific sense.

“[I…]”

_[Don’t look so worried.]_ No, please do. _[Your secret is safe with me.]_

“[What secret?]”

_[I lied before. It’s clear to me what side of the line you sit. All I ask is whether there’s a name for **my** side.]_

Your face once again sets itself in stone, and you foolishly imagine yourself in any position to make ultimatums. “[I am not discussing this any more, Wood.]”

_[Perhaps later, then?]_

“[No. I have work to do.]” And that, apparently, is your final word on the subject, as you gather your wits and leave me struggling not to show my inner triumph.

I let you go. My work today is done.

************

Toys, humans, professionals, colleagues. All have minds. You know a little of mine, and for the briefest moment I glanced into your simplicity and complexity.

All have souls. I know yours, or a facet thereof.

All have secrets.

I know yours, Kindermann. I know where your affections lie: firmly at my feet, as frightened as you are to admit it. Little scared doctor, dressed in black.

And you know my own secret, one of many I hold close. But I don’t regret it. For my interrogation to work at its fullest, I **had** to show it to you. You had to know that my question about attraction to humans … _a_ human was not based entirely in speculation, and that my kiss was not purely for test purposes.

If I know a darker side of you, it is only fair you know one of mine, wouldn’t you agree?


End file.
